


What’s in a name?

by lunadesangre



Series: Infinite Possibilities [3]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Undercover Cop, Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, M/M, Oz Magi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunadesangre/pseuds/lunadesangre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know, alone is alone. It's the way I've been my whole fucking life. I just don't belong in this world." Miguel finally finds somewhere he belongs, and Ryan finally starts thinking he’s been given redemption for everything that happened in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What’s in a name?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaialux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/gifts).



> Oz Magi 2013, Wish #1, Request 1:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Miguel Alvarez/Ryan O’Reily.  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: "You know, alone is alone. It's the way I've been my whole fucking life. I just don't belong in this world." Miguel finally finds somewhere he belongs, and Ryan finally starts thinking he’s been given redemption for everything thing that happened in the past.  
> Canon/AU/Either: Either - post-series canon could work, or maybe an AU where Miguel is a street kid and meets Ryan. Or anything, really, I’d just like some angsty Miguel falling in love.  
> Special Requests: No character death or non-con/dub-con, please. Happy ending preferred.  
> Story/Art/Either: Story (but wouldn’t turn down art!).
> 
> I tried to make Miguel a street kid, I really did. He just had other ideas. I blame White Collar (weeell... White Collar and Wiseguy _and_ the photoshoot Dean Winters did with his brothers where they all wear very-Neal hats _and_ Kirk Acevedo's totally badass expressions in the L &O and Fringe stills where he's wearing a suit). Also, my apologies for the pairing being so subtle – and for the gaping plotholes. Please ignore them!

People say there’s two ways out of the barrios: climbing up the criminal ladder, or honing down some kind of inane skill until you end up a rich celebrity.

But there’s a third one, rare and mostly ignored – and in those neighborhoods, the kind that can get you killed faster than any other option if ever discovered: _undercover cop_. With the kind of cover than can withstand a shit weatherstorm – or a powerful gang – because it’s almost entirely the truth, minus one detail about true allegiances (and even then – sometimes it’s easy to forget, he’s been told).

Of course, it means this: his undercover backstory is his true one – minus his short sting at the Academy, disguised as running away. Hell, not even so heavily disguised, considering he had run away for it: no way to tell anyone what he wanted to do, not where he grew up. Not even his mother.

So he’s Miguel Alvarez, small-time thug of El Norte, con in Oz, riot leader, ex-con and climbing up El Norte’s ladder, contact after contact.

Not Miguel Alvarez, FBI, Organized Crime Division.

Not until he takes El Norte down like a well-placed cascade of dominoes – and then, he ends up with a bounty on his head, so the Agency fakes his death, relocates him and changes his name: he’s never really Miguel Alvarez, FBI, Organized Crime Division.

Instead he ends up being Hector Salazar, newly transferred to DC Art Crimes. He’s alone with a new job in a new city – but he’s always been alone. So he does what he’s always done: throws himself into work.

He doesn’t know much about art – though he did always like drawing –, but he knows about criminals. He’s good, plain and simple, is what his new colleagues think of him. Pretty soon he knows more about art than he ever could have imagined – especially for a kid born in his barrio. A few more years and he moves to New York, as Hector Salazar still, but this time it’s _Hector Salazar, Special Agent in Charge of the Manhattan White Collar Division_.

Then come the bonds.

At first, the only thing he thinks is: they’re very, very well forged. And catching forgers is his job now – his life, really –, but how good this new one is makes him even more determined to find him than he would normally be, because the guy is _good_.

And as it turns out, smart too: he’s definitely in New York, but that’s it. Some bonds end up in the same bank, some don’t, they’re all over town, and some have been there for quite a while: they’re so good some of them aren’t declared fakes until very much after they’ve been cashed in. There seems to be everyone’s prints on them except the guy’s, despite him having clearly touched them, and to top it off, security cameras are no help at all, as they never show his face: he seems to know where they all are to always turn his head in the wrong direction (or the right one, depending on the point of view) and _he wears a hat_.

The guy is one hell of a charmer too, Miguel (well, Hector, but he’ll probably always still think of himself as Miguel) gathers that much from the very few witnesses: almost always female, and all saying the only thing they can remember is that their mysterious forger had a very nice smile. Miguel rolls his eyes, every time, but he’s really intrigued, because months after the case landed on his desk he still doesn’t have more clues about his guy that he had on the first day. His profile is this: white, tall, mid-thirties, dark hair, ridiculously nice smile, no fingerprints, and very fucking clever.

Then, going into one of the city’s banks that hasn’t been hit yet to meet the director, he almost bumps into Ryan O’Reily coming out of it. They both stare for a second or two, and O’Reily side-steps him with a nod, a little smirkish smile at his badge, and “ _Alvarez_ ” – Miguel watches him saunter away with his heart beating a little too fast. Because: O’Reily knows who he really is, probably shouldn’t be out already, and _he’s wearing a hat_.

White, tall, mid-thirties, dark hair – and Miguel remembers from his time in Oz, ridiculously deceptively nice smile and very fucking clever indeed. When the agitated director shows him a fake bond that was just cashed in barely five minutes later, he’s not even surprised.

He calls in back-up, have them establish a perimeter and check everyone, but of course O’Reily is long gone. The one positive point is Miguel knows exactly who he’s looking for now, though the cashier isn’t absolutely positive she recognizes O’Reily from his mugshot. “He was such a nice man,” she says, “they look the same, but it can’t be the same guy!” Miguel manages to put out an APB on O’Reily anyway, _for questioning_ , and he sets out to connect the dots.

O’Reily is actually out on parole. It’s slightly hard to believe but Miguel’s certainly seen even more dangerous guys set loose – or at least, more twisted ones. O’Reily’s been seeing his parole officer regularly like a good little ex-con and bartending in an Irish pub, keeping out of trouble (or as out of trouble as the bartender of an Irish pub can be). There’s nothing anywhere to give even the slightest indication he’s indeed Miguel’s forger, except Miguel _knows_ it’s him. He can feel it.

He’s ready to have O’Reily brought in on parole violation, but O’Reily doesn’t miss his appointment the very next day. Worse: he comes to Miguel on his own, answers every question the right way, and passes the polygraph test. And he keeps calling Miguel _sir_ until the very end, when Miguel has no choice but to let him go.

Then it’s “See ya then, Officer Alvarez.” And Miguel, well, Miguel looses it. He catches up to him in the elevator, slams him against the wall, and all but growls “It’s _Special Agent in Charge Hector Salazar_ , O’Reily. Don’t think for one second you have anything over me here, because I _will_ prove that you forged those bonds and I _will_ send you back to jail, just you wait.”

But the elevator dings and O’Reily slips out of his grip with that smirkish smile again, unfazed, even fucking _amused_. He gives Miguel a two-fingers salute before stepping out of the building.

That’s how it starts: O’Reily gets under his skin like no one else has been able to, and Miguel has a fucking point to prove. (And it’s only later, _a lot_ later, that Miguel will start to clue in that maybe it started in Oz, really.) It’s not just about _catching the bad guy_ – and that should have been the first warning sign. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and not only O’Reily is damn good at it, he makes Miguel rethink the game. (Because: maybe they’re both cats. And how the hell do cats catch each other? They don’t. They fight. Until one of them runs away, or they call it a draw and grumpily share their turf, or until one day they mysteriously end up cuddling together like a small two-headed furry monster for reasons no one can understand.)

Three months later Miguel’s no closer to catching O’Reily than he was when the game started. It’s pissing him off – and it’s obsessing him. He’s aware he’s gotten particularly possessive of this case: O’Reily’s _his_. _He_ ’ll be the one to catch him, and no one else. _It’s a matter of pride_ is what he tells people, and even himself. But he’s never mentioned he knows O’Reily from before. He tells himself it’s to keep his cover – it might even be the truth. Except with the last of El Norte’s leaders dead, he doesn’t need his cover anymore. That, he avoids thinking about, and stalks O’Reily instead.

When you’re a fed though, stalking’s legit: it’s called _surveillance_. Perk of the job, Miguel thinks when he’s had a shot too many – it’s not that he likes stalking people, but he’s always been fucking nosy. Stalking O’Reily quickly becomes his only past-time activity.

It’s frustrating though: the guy is so damn _clean_. It’s home and work every day with parole checks-up and mass interspersed in (Friday and Sunday respectively). The bureau starts strongly doubting his suspicions; the only thing working in Miguel’s favor is the fact that they haven’t heard of the mysterious forger since Miguel had O’Reily in for questioning – which is no proof at all. Miguel would pull his hair out if he kept it long enough.

Instead, he walks into O’Reily’s pub. He’s not exactly sure what he’s doing, but he thinks: there’s more than one way to catch a cat. O’Reily stares at him for a few seconds, as Miguel perches on a barstool right in front of him and orders a tequila like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You know,” O’Reily almost laughs, “you walked into the wrong place for that. No tequila here, amigo.” And the funny thing is, he almost sounds like he means the last word, but Miguel knows him too well for that.

“Hm,” he pretends to think for a second, “Guinness then, I’m sure you’ll have _that_.” O’Reily does laughs then, and when he grabs a glass, Miguel dryly adds: “In a bottle. With the cap still on, thanks, I can open it myself.”

“If I didn’t know better, Alvarez, I’d say you don’t trust me,” O’Reily smirks at him. “Worried I’d put something in your glass?”

Miguel rolls his eyes: he remembers Schibetta. “I know you. Of course I am.”

O’Reily has the gall to actually look slightly hurt as he slides Miguel’s bottle and a small bottle-opener on the countertop. “I’d be a poor bartender if I went around putting shit in customers’ glasses, Alvarez.”

“Agent Salazar, O’Reily,” Miguel says almost absently as he opens his bottle, slides the opener back to O’Reily and takes a swig.

O’Reily leans towards him on the countertop. “It doesn’t suit you.” He looks strangely serious about it, Miguel thinks, bottle thunking slightly on the wood as he puts it back down, leaving his fingers around the top, playing with it.

He leans forwards as well, and consciously bites the hook. “What doesn’t suit me? The name, the badge, the haircut?” Maybe he’s teasing slightly, reverting back to _Miguel Alvarez_ , but he can’t really help it. Or bring himself to mind.

“All of it,” O’Reily replies. “Well, maybe not the haircut. It’s alright.” And fucking hell, but the mick is teasing back.

“Yeah,” Miguel answers without missing a beat, smirking, “still look good, huh?”

O’Reily laughs. “Glad to see at least your ego hasn’t changed, Alvarez.”

There’s a pause, where they’re both grinning, and Miguel abruptly realizes he’s enjoying himself here. And also: “Salazar. Come on, O’Reily, stop fucking calling me that.”

O’Reily is the one rolling his eyes this time. “Salazar,” he says mock-obediently, as another customer waves him over from a few stools away. “Doesn’t suit you,” he adds as he walks over.

“And what does?” Miguel asks him when he walks by again, but the pub filled up fast and O’Reily doesn’t answer. Miguel watches him work for a while, then finishes his beer, leaves money on the countertop and goes home.

With no new leads and other cases, this becomes his new routine, almost every night: instead of stalking O’Reily, Miguel talks to him. Listens to him. Mundane shit and the weather at first, and gradually, more personal stuff. Oz and boxing and traveling. Choices. Being stuck. Loneliness. Their lives, really.

Somewhere along the line, he finds out what it is that suits him in O’Reily’s mind: _Miguel_. After five months of daily visits, of reminders to stop calling him _Alvarez_ , that’s what he becomes, casually, one night. He’s still suspicious of O’Reily’s motives, but he’s more touched that he would ever admit – if he could even admit to it in the first place – because _that’s_ his name. He’s complicated as fuck, but _he’s Miguel_ , and somehow, he thinks, O’Reily can see that. Or maybe he’s reading too much into it. Either way, he starts calling O’Reily _Ryan_ , gets a pleased little smile, and their routine goes on. And despite Miguel’s wariness, despite him being a fed and Ryan an ex-con and still Miguel’s prime suspect – on what is now almost a cold case – they become sort-of friends.

And then, of course, it blows over.

It’s very simple, actually: Ryan doesn’t have many weaknesses, but the ones he has are gaping wounds. A tiny prick and it hurts like hell. And the biggest one, well, the biggest one is the one subject he’s been completely skating over: his brother. Miguel’s read the files, he knows about the brain-damage, knows as much as hospital and criminal records can tell him. He doesn’t know Ryan’s side of the story. Or where Cyril is. Or why Ryan’s been forging bonds and delivering them in person. As it turns out, it all boils down to Cyril. Later, his report will actually be quite fast to type, once he’ll have figured out how to phrase all his drinking talks with his main suspect.

One night, Ryan’s not in the pub, and his co-workers have no idea why. Miguel goes to his place, and it’s all torn inside out, door bashed in – Miguel almost gives himself a minor heart-attack when he sees the damage and no sign of Ryan. He calls it in immediately, but it’s not until the next morning any hint on Ryan turns up – on the surveillance video from yet another bank who just received another forged bond.

But this time, Ryan doesn’t wear a hat, and he looks straight at the camera. Even on grainy black and white, his eyes are not something Miguel’s likely to forget any time soon: he’s never seen him scared before. There’s also this: all the banks in the city have been instructed to slip in one stack of bills containing a tracking device with the rest of the cash in exchange for a fake bond – Miguel knows Ryan is aware of it, because they’ve only found the trackers thrown away before. Only this time, the signal keeps moving to a warehouse outside the city. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s Ryan’s way of calling Miguel for help.

Help, it turns out, he really fucking needs – but Miguel knows he wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t desperate. Turns out Ryan’s been hiding his brother in a clinic specializing in head-trauma, under a pretty strong alias. The why becomes clear as soon as Miguel and his back-up knock down the warehouse door: Miguel remembers fucking Schillinger holding a grudge against Ryan back in Oz, but he’s apparently now set his whole merry little band after him – and somehow, they found his brother, found out Ryan’s been paying for his very expensive treatments, and decided they were going to get rich before they killed them both, by holding Cyril hostage and sending Ryan to get cash. Because they figured out the same thing Miguel does: no matter how desperate the situation, Ryan would do anything for his brother.

“Never been glad to see a fed before,” Ryan tells him later, grinning despite the handcuffs Miguel just put on him (because Ryan’s definitely _his_ and Miguel wouldn’t let anyone else slap cuffs on him). Cyril’s okay, and Miguel guesses that’s all Ryan cares about right then.

“You do realize you’re going back to jail, right?” Miguel has to ask. “And with your priors, your chances of getting out again are really fucking slim.”

Ryan looses his smile slightly. “Yeah, I know. Better than the alternative though.”

There’s a pause. Miguel doesn’t know what to say, except, softly: “The state’ll look after Cyril.”

“But he won’t get the same treatments,” Ryan says, and he sounds rather desperate when he adds: “He was getting better, you know? He was.” And fuck, but he looks desperate as well, and that’s not a look Miguel’s likely to forget any time soon either, not those green eyes like that, from so close.

There’s nothing he can do: his case is back on track. The new evidence, despite those nazi fucks, now makes the whole thing stand by itself. _Now_ Miguel gets why the line is blurry, and why some people forget: he’s almost sorry his case stands. It’s what he wanted, but – and it pains him to even think it – perhaps not anymore. Not that it matters: it’s out of his hands now.

The next few weeks are messy. Ryan doesn’t make bail: his lack of fingerprints reinforces the evidence against him. Cyril ends up at his aunt Brenda’s because their dad is a real piece of crap and the state doesn’t want to pay for a full-time clinic or facility as long as he has family that’s not in prison. Miguel starts checking up on him twice a week just because Ryan can’t; the aunt is polite enough, and the kid (because a kid is what he is) is really sweet: Miguel teaches him how to make paper flowers from a vague remnant of his childhood and secret google searches, and Cyril basically adopts him. The nazis kidnappers/hitmen eventually get found guilty – and get a lighter sentence than Ryan does. Miguel’s part of the system, but sometimes, he can’t help but think it’s all completely fucked up.

He’s distracted the day before Ryan’s scheduled to go back to Oz _for good_. So distracted it takes him a few extra seconds to figure out why the combination for the safe his team is currently cracking to access the evidence of another tough case is weird ( _324 – FBI_ ) that it explodes and they all spend five minutes coughing up dust, their evidence destroyed. Miguel peels off one of the small strips of red fibers covering his jacket and very nearly starts screaming at his agents. Which is of course precisely when his phone rings to announce Ryan fucking O’Reily has escaped his temporary prison – dressed as a guard no less.

Miguel knows him, so he speeds to Brenda’s house. Ryan might have managed to not visit Cyril for all those months Miguel had him under complete surveillance, but after all this he’ll want to check on his brother, probably even take him away. Cyril’s thankfully still there, so Miguel parks his car in another street and goes to knock on the door. He tells Cyril they’re playing a game: he’s going to hide, and Ryan’s going to show up, and Cyril can’t let him know Miguel’s here. He feels a bit bad about it, actually does think maybe he should let them run, but at the end of the day, _he’s FBI_ and he just _can’t do that_.

It works like a charm: Ryan’s very far from stupid, but he doesn’t think clearly when his brother is concerned. And when he sees Miguel, he doesn’t fight or try to run.

“Miguel,” he just says, “come on. I can’t leave him here.” He’s all but pleading, but Miguel can’t let him go, and tells him so. Ryan sighs and closes his eyes.

He lets Miguel turn him around against the wall and frisk him ( _again_ , perhaps a bit too softly still – and fucking hell but _the mick has long legs_ and Miguel’s had that thought before), tells Cyril it’s alright when the kid starts looking twitchy.

As Miguel is about to put the handcuffs on him though, he asks: “What’s that on your jacket, anyway?”

“Fuck if I know,” Miguel answers, distracted. “Shit from the case I was on when you decided to play dress up and skip out.” Ryan turns around in interest – or tries to, as Miguel grabs his wrists with a “Hey, don’t move.”

Ryan almost laughs, but he stills. “You really don’t know what it is?”

“No,” answers Miguel, still holding his wrists, curiosity picked. “Do _you_?”

“Maybe.”

“So what is it?”

“Let me turn around.”

Slowly, Miguel does just that. He’s ready for anything, but all Ryan does is pick up one of the fibers off his jacket and examine it. “So, Sherlock, what?”

A smirk. They’ve traded favorite books titles. “What’s it worth to you if I tell you what it is?” And quickly, before Miguel can open his mouth, maybe because he can see Miguel wants to laugh at him ( _same old O’Reily_ ): “Is it worth a meeting? ‘Cause that’s a tough case, isn’t it?”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“I’ll trade you. I’ll tell you what it is, right now, if you promise you’ll come see me in one week.”

“And what?”

“Just a meeting, Miguel,” Ryan almost pleads.

Miguel thinks it over for a few seconds, just to make Ryan sweat. He already knows what he wants to say: “Fine.”

“It's a security fiber for the new Canadian hundred dollar bill,” Ryan tells him, handing it back.

He’s right too, Miguel soon finds out. Not only that, but the formulation is still classified, and Miguel isn’t the only one impressed. (Though in the case of the Canadian Secret Services, it’s more like _freaked out_ – hand it to the Lord of the Fucking Dance to start a diplomatic incident.)

“How’d you know?” Miguel asks him, a week later on the dot.

Ryan just grins, all bright and sharp (but the prison uniform makes his eyes look grey). “Come on Miguel, I can’t give you all my secrets. Gotta keep some mystery in this relationship.”

Miguel snorts. “Right. So. _What do you want?_ ”

Ryan takes a deep breath. “Out.”

“Out?” Miguel interrupts. “I’m not your fairy godmother, O’Reily.”

“ _Ryan_.” He glares, but he looks determined and very fucking serious. “If I can help with your case, you can get me out in your custody.” He opens a stack of documents while Miguel gapes at him a little, and slides them to him. “There’s precedents for this sort of thing. I’ll wear a tracking anklet, and you’ll see me every day.”

“And you’ll see Cyril every day.”

“That too. Look, I won’t lie –” Miguel’s eyebrows fly up, but Ryan trudges on: “You know Cyril is my priority. But I could help you too. Think about it.” And, leaning closer: “ _Please_.”

“It doesn’t just depend on me, you know,” is all Miguel’s brain can come up with. Pleading eyes burnt into it along with Ryan’s sharp features.

“I know,” whispers Ryan. “I know.”

Miguel spends the whole night mulling it over – mulling _Ryan_ over. He’s not trustworthy, but Miguel _wants_ to trust him. And he’s got a point: that case is stuck. In the morning, he looks up Ryan’s proposal. It seems no time at all until he’s leaning against his car outside of Oz, watching the gates open to let Ryan out.

“Lemme see it,” are the first words out of Miguel’s mouth. And okay, maybe he’s smirking a bit.

Ryan walks up to the car, puts his right foot on the tire, and hitches up his jeans. The tracker is stark black against his pale skin. “Happy?” he asks.

“I should be asking you that,” Miguel retorts.

“Yeah,” answers Ryan with a ghosty grin, “thanks.”

“Come on, get in the car, let’s get out of here.” Miguel’s no more fond of this place than Ryan is.

Ryan gets into the passenger seat obediently, and watches Oz shrink in the rearview mirror.

“Right,” Miguel says in the silence, “we’ve set you up with your own room in a hotel near the bureau’s headquarters, it’s small but it’ll have to do – unless you find something better for seven hundred a month, ‘cause I’m afraid that’s all you’re getting. You’ve got a two miles radius from that point. I expect to see you in the office at nine a.m. sharp every day except Sunday, unless I tell you to be in. You’ll have a cellphone with a very basic plan – calls to Ireland are on you if you need to make any –” Ryan snorts. “– and you’d better pick up when I call. Any questions?”

“Aunt Brenda’s house isn’t on my two miles radius, huh?”

Miguel winces. “No. But I suppose Cyril could live with you.”

“On seven hundred a month?” Ryan asks incredulously. “What are we supposed to eat, raw potatoes?”

“Hey, it’s this or jail,” Miguel retorts, though he’s been thinking the same thing. “And you’ll get a bit more for him from social welfare.”

Ryan settles down in his seat with a mumbled “right.”

“This is a temporary arrangement,” Miguel reminds him gently, because he has to. “But crack this case and we can make it permanent.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ryan suddenly smiling.

The smile is in his voice too: “Yeah? Planning on having me on a leash for all eternity, Miguel?”

Miguel smirks. “That,” he deadpans, “really depends on you. Be good and I might keep you.”

The old O’Reily, the one he knew from Oz, Miguel is sure, would have slammed his fist in his face. Ryan here now only looks amused, green eyes dancing and lips slightly parted when Miguel chances taking his eyes off the road to look at him. And fuck, but the effect of that look on Miguel is almost the same as a punch would have been.

That Ryan can solve his case, Miguel has no doubt. That they’re going to be stuck together, drawing – it seems – inevitably closer and closer, and that Miguel could loose his job and Ryan end up back in Oz for life if anything happens? Karma, he’s sure.

Goddammit all to fucking hell, he thinks – but he wouldn’t trade it.


End file.
